incenseburning | A Shared Dream

Tonight, Lan Wangji dreams of a void of endless grey, and from that grows a magnolia tree in full bloom, suspended in space, its gnarled roots coiling around themselves and stretching down, down to where they can no longer be seen. There is an old, weathered door nestled in its base, inscribed with characters that are shifting, amorphous. Perhaps they point at what lies beyond, perhaps not. Still, there is nothing else in this space besides a vague sense of forboding hanging in the air, the impression of a held breath. As if some unseen essence advises caution, but stops short in trepidation, leaving hidden dangers unnamed.

Lan Wangji has the impression, somehow, that he is very young. He looks at hands he barely recognizes, sees his training robes. However his ribbon is lost, this much he's certain of, and the knowledge fills him with a strange sense of panic and the childish urge to cry. He looks for it, near-frantic, circling the base of the tree, but there are no hiding places, and he is at a loss.

Still, he searches, because there's nothing else he can do. Soon, there are footsteps. He can't tell where they're coming from, only that they're growing closer, and there's a cadence and gait to them that he knows intimately. How close to him is this person, that he can know them from the sound of walking alone? Lan Wangji calls out, but his voice sounds too young and strangely loud even as it sticks in his throat.

He turns back to the tree. The old door is now open. He moves closer, curious, peering into the blackness beyond.